


Adaptability

by goldtracing



Series: the arcane under the obvious [6]
Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Introspection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-03
Updated: 2021-02-03
Packaged: 2021-03-15 04:47:43
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,353
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29183517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldtracing/pseuds/goldtracing
Summary: Russia was always durable. The world has made him that way.
Relationships: America & Russia (Hetalia), France & Russia (Hetalia), Germany & Russia (Hetalia), Mongolia & Russia (Hetalia), Russia & Sweden (Hetalia), Russia & Turkey (Hetalia)
Series: the arcane under the obvious [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2061180
Kudos: 8





	Adaptability

> I have an inborn urge to contradict; my whole life has been a mere chain of sad and futile opposition to the dictates of either heart or reason. The presence of an enthusiast makes me as cold as a midwinter's day, and, I believe, frequent association with a listless phlegmatic would make me an impassioned dreamer.
> 
> — Mikhail Lermontov, A Hero of Our Time

Russia was always durable.

Not durable in the way you would attribute it to a machine, by how long the gears functioned and the cogs turned before rust ate away at the steel. Rather in the peculiar fashion that only a human beings could be, as they weathered the hardships of life.

And his life had been far harsher than that of the regular mortal.

Somehow, he had always consisted of the must brutal invaders, the ones that made populations bleed before they settled down with the barbarity slowly watering away as the decades past. Russia hadn’t been alive when the Huns had led their campaigns, yet he had still felt those echoes in his bones when Mongolia had occupied the small stretch of land he had been at the time.

_He often stared up at the Empire, the invader, his tormentor and had smiled, showing off bloody teeth. At that time, he was painfully young, still small enough to feel existential dread whenever a foreign power crossed his borders. Yet in face of an insurmountable foe, in all his horrific glory, he found himself vowing to one day be big and strong enough to eclipse Mongolia._

The southern neighbour hadn’t been the only to put him under a yoke, or at least try too. Steadily, he had grown into a more complete version of himself. As with everything in his life it hadn’t come effortlessly, nor had the art of war become any more tolerable to him.

There had been Sweden, with whom he had constantly battled, clawing into tundra and forest as they had both vied for more power. And for the downfall of the other. While neither had come about – even with all the energy invested – Russia found satisfaction in how his former adversary was scared of him.

On the other side, there had been the Ottoman Empire, competing with him for his southern regions and the countries that were constantly passed between them in a tug of war. That empire had always been rather unconventional in comparison to his Nordic counterpart, carrying a completely other flavour of ruthlessness. That, as well a persistence and a stubbornness that he had come to admire.

But the more recent foes were always the most worth remembering.

France had been so audacious. After over a century of Russia looking up to the other nation, of integrating his language in the high echelons of his society, of adopting his philosophy, imitating his arts and weaving his traditions into Russian culture, France had invaded him. And Russia had retaliated mercilessly when the other had regarded him as thoroughly beaten.

Icy winds had been snapping at the heels of France when his Emperor had dragged him over the border. The personification had been weakened through frostbite and starvation and bullets buried deep in his body. And the fear of seeing Russia’s stare, with General Winter hovering close by.

History may not exactly repeat itself, yet it sure does rhyme. So the procedure had been rehearsed when Germany had stepped over a few too many lines, dazed by his expansionist dreams. Only that Germany had been for more sturdy, had fought back viciously, making every step back expensive in the blood that had been spilt. Yet while the youngster had had him tethering on the edge of annihilation, he had also catapulted him hegemony, with all the power and rights that had been granted to him in lieu of the most destructive conflict humanity had ever witnessed.

America had been a wholly different story all together. Maybe because it hadn’t been an outright war, rather a measuring of wits, a competition in skulduggery, an arms race. The allegory of a chess game had also been very fitting, with the two of them having little option to move. The threat of a nuclear Armageddon had effectively locked them in stalemate in many areas.

Russia was always durable.

Finally, he had kept his promise, yet the price had been high.

Maybe that was because he wasn’t one of those fine marble statues carved from a master’s hand – that description had always been more befitting of Italy or France. Rather, he had been roughly hewn out of basalt, each war freeing another distinct characteristic, each natural hardship chiselling out one of his finer features.

Centuries of strife and cruel sovereigns and back-bending winters had made him cynical. All those revolutions and religions that had promised him prosperity and peace to not only fall short of their word, but also to attempt to shackle him again. Often, the circumstances that had shaped him gravely had been the result of internal pressure, rather than external.

_I was ironic, how priests and revolutionaries were so similar. Each promise paradises if one abided to their strict rules, and hell when piety wasn’t delivered. Speeches and sermons were different, yet their still existed many parallels. Yet he would grant the Communists that they had pushed his progression forward until he had become an industrialised nation, a global player. They had demanded much – for him to burn down the past so that something new and healthy could grow out of the ashes. Had commanded him to purge himself of dead weight and liabilities, as if it was just a session in bloodletting. Unfortunately for them, they had failed in creating a utopia, and thus had lost his favour when their system had imploded on them. However, he wondered if he had stopped believing in heaven on earth before Stalin had risen to power. His people were right when they said that a lot changed in Russia in 20 years, but nothing actually changed in a century. It was the same rulers with different names but similar methods._

No wonder he had grown so desensitised, so bitter and jaded to the extent that he detested the boundless optimism that was so characteristic of America. Reality was brutal and unkind. If Mother Nature was made manifest in a condensed form, then she should be dragged in front an ethics committee and charged for her endless cruelties. 

Russia was always durable.

It had lead to others becoming so afraid of him. The foreigner from the East. Or from the West depending on the point of view. The reserved titan that was a mystery and thus a threat. A danger that had to be closer monitored.

The world probably had his wrath in mind when they treaded carefully around him and spoke ill of him behind his back. They remembered how the desire for vengeance, for retribution had often synthesised into a hyper focused motivation. They called him a monster for all that he had done, and the best part was that they weren’t wrong. Russia had done the unspeakable, had spilled blood aplenty, had put others under his yoke when he had been oppressed himself.

Yet did that really make him worse than all the others? Worse than England, who had subjugated empires for his own imperial ambitions? Worse than America, who had experimented on his own people in pursuit of the truth as well as power? Weren’t they all sinners, drenched in blood and residing on a throne of bones?

Really, to paint him in all his mistakes while claiming oneself holy and pure wasn’t just the pot calling the kettle black, it was hypocrisy, shameless lies. Still, Russia wasn’t surprised – it was far easier to parade the atrocities of another than to admit to one’s own sins.

He looked upon the current state of the world and saw so many of the same processes being played on repeat. While everybody said that the world would soon be inexorably changed, he somehow doubted that. Only time would tell if his doubts were unfounded or not.


End file.
